To Dolores this ebullition was more terrifying than his recent wrath. After the emotional stress of the morning, she felt that she could not endure it. Glancing in the direction taken by the crone-shade, she made out the bent figure dissolving into the brume. She arose and faced her tormentor.
“I wish you wouldn’t laugh that way,” she said, calmly as she could.
Satan wiped his eyes.
“I do get so amused at the rages into which I work myself to frighten folks,” he commented when able to articulate. “Really, you can’t imagine how much fun I have with myself. Pardon me, but I—I just can’t get over your——”
“Won’t Your Highness oblige me by——”
“My Lowness.”
“Your Lowness. Please, Pluto.”
“‘Please, Pluto!’” Although mocking her, he settled into seriousness. “When you get tricky like that—call me friendly names for favors, you know—it is then that I have hopes of you. Didn’t you know I was only fooling? Do you suppose I’d drop you over the rim before hearing the rest of those griefs to men?”
They returned to the Hell Hawk by way of The Lane of Futile Labors. Although the King seemed minded to hurry, Dolores’ steps lagged, so absorbing were the illusory sights on either hand.